


Steps of Blood and Steel

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Captivity, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Priest Jason, Viking Tim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: When Jason is captured, taken from his village, and carted off across the sea by a bunch of savage Northmen, he's convinced that he's about to be killed in some kind of ritual. But, as it happens, they've got other plans for him; more long-term ones (and ones that maybe, he can learn to live with).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a blatant rip off of Vikings, because I just watched like the first three seasons not so long ago, and I needed it. (You can blame Fire for this happening too. Enabler.) It's not a like, actual rip off of the show's plot, and obviously Tim and Jason are not going to be the same characters as Ragnar and Athelstan, but it has the same theme to start with. (This is really just a setup chapter; not sure when I'll get the next one out.) Enjoy!
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

When the bells ring, both too late and too early for any sort of call to prayer, Jason feels himself freeze in place for a long couple moments. He has to remember to inhale, to do something other than still in place like some sort of frightened rabbit, because if it’s not for prayer, or for celebration, than those are _warning bells_.

He drops the bucket in his hand, letting the feed scatter across the ground as he runs out of the chicken’s enclosure. He spares exactly enough time to latch the gate again, and no more, before he heads for the main square, running the very small list of possibilities through his mind.

Some sort of emergency is possible, but the only times that Jason’s heard the bells ring for that have been during heavy rains, when rivers overflowed and threatened to wash away farms and people both, or out of control fires. No rain. No smoke. A serious crime is another possibility, but Jason _knows_ these people well enough to know that none of them would murder their neighbors, and no strangers have been through in the last few days to cause disturbances either. Which leaves one other, far worse, option.

Northmen. _Raiders_.

Jason gets to the main square as the gates are being shut and barred. He takes a glance at that, and then climbs the stairs to the top of the wall — that suddenly, somehow, doesn’t seem tall enough — to look over the edge, keeping himself pressed low as he looks across the fields and wood beyond their protection. It doesn’t take more than a moment for his gaze to find the approaching men, and his breath catches at the blades and axes held openly in their hands, matching with leather and fur and large, round shields.

There are only just over a dozen, but Jason knows, without even having to think about it, that it will be more than enough to kill them all. It’s a small village, based around the church he’s part of, and they’re far enough from the coast that they weren’t gifted soldiers to intercept attacks like these. Maybe a few people here know how to swing a blade, but not to the level necessary to fight men like these.

Jason lets himself jump the last few stairs on his way down, landing a little harder than he wants and almost stumbling before he moves to follow the example of the other priests already gathered, ushering everyone inside the walls of the church itself. The door to the church is somewhat stronger, and might give them enough time to hide, or at least to say final prayers.

(No one seems to consider the idea that the gates might _not_ break, but given the stories that Jason’s heard of other churches and settlements along the coast being raided, that’s probably a fair assumption.)

He hears the first _thump_ of something against the gate as he presses his hand to the back of an older woman, helping to steady her as she comes around the side of the church, from back where the stalls and craftsman’s buildings are. He tries not to let it do more than make him tense, because he’s pretty sure that if he starts running, he’s not going to stop. There are still other people to help, still people to get inside the church and try and keep sheltered from the attack, if that’s possible; he can’t afford to succumb to fear yet.

He passes her off to the priest at the door and turns around to look for others, moving to guide them in as well. Most don’t need more than encouragement to go the right direction, and he gets to the outside of the collection of villagers easily enough, guiding stragglers in the right direction and trying not to let their fear become his own, despite the wide eyes and panicked cries.

There’s a terrible sound at his back, a splintering _crack_ that makes his head jerk around. He watches, in horror, as one half of the gate caves forward, hinge in pieces and no longer _any_ barrier to the savages beyond. The first comes through the gap, and Jason turns back towards the door of the church. Except it’s _closing_ , leaving maybe a third of the gathered villagers trapped outside, including him. Outside with the _raiders_.

Maybe it’s old instincts, born from his initial years on the streets and never wiped out by his acceptance into the priesthood later in life, but after a moment of standing frozen, poised to run but with nowhere to go, he bursts into movement. One glance back towards the encroaching savages fuels his flight, and he bolts away from the church and into the houses and buildings beyond. It’s harder to ignore the screaming than it was to ignore the sounds of the gate being broken down, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to.

(Maybe a _good_ Christian would try to save his fellow man, no matter the cost, but Jason has too much street-rat selfishness ground into his bones and always has. He won’t sacrifice his own life for nothing, and standing in the way of the raiders would be exactly that. _Nothing_.)

There’s no good way out of this place except the main gate, but if he can get on top of the wall than he can drop down over it and make a run for the woods. The stairs by the gate are the easiest way, but there are a couple other less orthodox ways up; he’s only used them once or twice each, but he couldn’t come to a place like this and _not_ know every way out. Being able to escape is a need he’s mostly outgrown, but it wasn’t then, and things haven’t changed around here.

There’s a shout from behind him, something excited and distinctly _not_ his language, and fear pushes a little extra speed into his legs. He doesn’t know if the shout was about him, doesn’t dare to look, but he’s nearly there and he can’t stop now. If he falls, if he trips…

He sees the goal then; the shed built a little too close to the wall, too tall to get on top of normally, but there’s a built-on chest beside it for tools. He hikes his robes up with one hand, getting them out of the way of his feet — those are _definitely_ footsteps behind him — and jumping onto that lower chest. Grabbing hold of the roof and hauling himself up is the next step; he takes the opportunity to turn his head and look down the alleyway he came from, and his eyes go wide.

There’s a pair of them running towards him, one with a bow and the other with an axe and shield, both with long red hair and both focused on _him_.

Jason hoists himself up onto the roof, getting his feet under him and then dropping back down, _hard_ , as an arrow slices the air just beside his neck. He takes a breath, forcing himself up again and turning to the wall, dragging his robes out of the way again as he takes one bracing moment and then gathers to _leap_ for the top of the wall.

 _Pain_ slices through the outside of his calf just a fraction of a moment before he jumps, and his stomach hits the edge of the wall, fingers scratching at the top as he falls off. His back hits the ground _hard_ , driving the air from his lungs, making his chest and back _ache_ with it.

He gasps uselessly, his head arching back, mouth twisting in a grimace at the pain, at the inability to _breathe_. He manages to get to his side, head lowered and legs drawing in to try and stand, before the savages are on him. One boot shoves him onto his back again, pinning him by his shoulder and upper arm and forcing him to look up at them, his fingers digging into the dirt as he tries to keep his breaths to short, shallow things that won’t hurt too badly.

The one with the bow is the one with the boot on his shoulder, and there’s an arrow loosely knocked on it, hanging low as the man looks down at him with green eyes and something between a smile and an outright grin. He’s tall; _massively_ muscular bared arms with black patterns tattooed down them, red hair pulled back into a collection of small braids that all bind together into a larger one, hanging over one of his shoulders. There’s a shield on his back, an axe on one hip and a quiver on the other.

Then the other steps into his view, and Jason realizes in a sharp, sudden shock that it’s a _woman_. Even taller than her companion, dressed in the same leather and fur armor, with the same brilliant green eyes and red hair. Hers is longer than his, bound in looser braids and spilling down her back in curls. She’s grinning too, excited, looking over the man’s shoulder and down towards him.

Jason had heard that the raiders fought alongside women, but he didn’t think it was _true_.

The man says something, and Jason can only blink and stare, the syllables unfamiliar, nothing but gibberish. The ache in his chest is easing down to more bearable levels, ones where he can actually breathe deeply again, but his breath goes instantly short again when the savage’s bow rises, hand drawing back the string. He tenses, legs curling up to brace against the ground, his mouth pulling into an instinctual, panic-driven snarl.

The woman speaks then, laughing in a high, clear tone that sounds utterly wrong against the backdrop of all that armor and weaponry. She leans up against the man’s back, the arm with the axe wrapping around his waist as she rests her head nearly on top of his as he answers her. There’s an easy, playful tone to their voices, and Jason finds it hard to equate to being held beneath a boot with an arrow half-drawn and aimed towards his head. It feels as though they should be growling, like beasts, or at least _look_ angry. But they don’t.

The string relaxes.

Jason’s breath comes out in a rush, the snarl making way for a trembling sort of relief. But it only takes a moment for reality to intrude again, and remind him that there is _no way_ two savage raiders chased him over here, shot him down (because what else could that pain on his calf have been but an arrow?), and then just decided to let him go. That’s a reminder that’s backed up by the fact that the boot on his shoulder doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

The archer suggests something (at least Jason _thinks_ that's what the tone sounds like), nodding down towards him, and the woman responds to it with another laugh and steps away, her arm sliding off his waist. Then she's crouching down beside him, legs open enough that Jason feels his face flush from just the _thought_ as he tries to keep his gaze away from between them. Her axe hooks over his throat in the next moment and that entire line of thought vanishes beneath the press of wood and metal against his skin. He goes still, even as the man's boot comes off his shoulder and the woman's other hand comes up and brushes his bangs away from his face, the rough wrap of the leather and cloth around her palm scratching at his skin.

She studies him, gaze sliding from his eyes, down the curve of his nose to his mouth, then up again. The man asks some sort of question, stepping over Jason's legs and then nudging his thigh with one boot, and she smiles, tracing the line of one side of his jaw with those roughened fingertips before she nods and lifts her head to look up at the archer. Her answer sounds positive, and Jason startles, taking in a sharp breath and _forcing_ himself not to move because _axe_ , when the man suddenly crouches down on his other side, leaning over him.

His eyes go wide as the two of them kiss, and he can see the flicker of a _tongue_ between them. She gives a sigh of _pleasure_ that makes Jason's cheeks burn, and he manages a sort of protesting, horrified sound beneath them that manages to get them to part and look down. He swallows at the sudden attention, fingers pressing harder into the dirt. The man smiles, head tilting back towards the woman. ( _His_ woman?) Whatever it is that he says must have something to do with Jason, because there's a little jerk of his chin down towards him, but there's no other clue and that makes him nervous. It would be so much easier if they _looked_ like the monsters he's heard they are.

Her mouth curves into something bright, and the axe pulls away from his neck.

Jason has time to take one deeper breath, before the handle of it _slams_ across his face.

* * *

Movement wakes him; rhythmic, like the ground itself is moving. It's almost enough to send him back to sleep, except that there's sounds around him, the murmur of voices he can't understand and the lap of water.

He stirs, wincing at the ache of pain across the right side of his face. Did someone hit him again? Did he get blindsided by some older boy with a grudge and a stick? No, that's… that's past. That's long past. This is… The village, the church, the— The _attack_.

He takes a deeper breath, forces his eyes open as he lifts his head from where it's lying down against his chest, despite the ache of his skull and the way that pain is radiating down his neck. Wood, water, sunlight, and then he recognizes the shapes of shields and chests ahead of him, and realizes he's close to the front of the boat (and yeah, it's definitely a boat). There's almost nothing ahead of him but the neck of it, rising into something beast-like at its front, and a few feet ahead of him that are empty apart from what he thinks might be chests full of whatever they took from his village.

He shifts, and finds that there's wood at his back, and rope circled around his chest and arms that's tying him to it. It's not tight enough that it's hard to breathe, but a few tugs against it prove that he's not going anywhere anytime soon. Especially because his wrists are tied together as well, and there's what feels like rope around his neck. That one's loose at least, for now.

The voices are still there, he discovers a moment later. Quiet things, spoken in what must be their language because he can't understand any of it. He can't see any of them, so they must be behind him somewhere, but they sound fairly close. Jason tilts his head as far as he can to the side, despite how it makes his face throb with pain, and he catches sight of the furthest-forward Northman, sitting against the side of the boat and smiling crookedly at something that Jason can't see. Looking to the other side shows him another, this one curled up in a space between two bags, asleep.

No one's paying any attention to him, as far as he can see.

He toys with the idea of trying to find something to cut the ropes with, or just trying to untie them, but practicality brings him up short. He's out on a boat, with a bunch of _pagan savages_ , in the middle of the sea. There's no land, and even if he could somehow get out of the bindings without them noticing there's still nowhere for him to go. He can swim, mostly, but his robes would drown him long before he ever found land. If he wants to escape, he'll have to wait until they're at least in sight of land again, or ideally back on it. (And he has to get out of these robes and find something easier to run in.) So for right now… He supposes there's nothing to do but wait.

He's just barely reached that decision, leaning his head back against the wood (he _thinks_ it's called a mast, but he never learned much about ships), when there's the dull thud of footsteps, and his captor, the archer, loops around and crouches down in front of him with a smile. Jason doesn't quite flinch back, but it's a near thing.

The archer lifts a hand, and for about two second Jason considers biting it before, again, he runs through the facts. Tied up. Boat. In the middle of the sea. _Northmen_. So he lets the fingers follow the same path as his woman did earlier, brushing his bangs back and then dropping away. The man speaks, voice quieter now than it was, smile still there and focus clear on him. Then a pause, a single word. Jason can't do anything but stare, not understanding the words nor the attempt to communicate, if it is that.

That same hand rises, pressing to the man's chest, and there's a slow, clearly enunciated, " _Roy._ " Jason frowns, but it doesn't seem to discourage the attempt at all. The word is repeated, fingers tapping at the man's chest, and then that hand extends towards him, expectantly, with a smile.

It takes Jason two more repetitions to understand that 'Roy' is the archer's _name_ , and that he's being silently asked for his own. He swallows then, and against his better judgment offers, "Jason."

The smile that the savage gives is a bright, friendly thing. Like he _didn’t_ just abduct Jason and carry him off towards God knows where, let alone whatever they did with everyone _else_ in his village, (and Jason is _trying_ not to think about that too much). There’s no visible blood on this ’Roy’ at least, so he… probably didn’t kill anyone himself. Or if he did, Jason’s been out a lot longer than he thought and there’s been a bath sometime in the middle. Or a… rinse. Do the Northmen bathe?

One hand comes forward to touch his chest, just above the ropes. "Jason," Roy repeats, and waits for his cautious nod before pulling away again, still smiling. He says something else then, as he sits back against the low walls at the front of the boat, but it's back to gibberish and all Jason can do is watch in mute incomprehension. At least until Roy reaches into the fold of his shirt and pulls out _his cross_ , chain twisted around his fingers as it hangs down between them, swaying back and forth as Jason feels shock get taken over by anger.

"Give that back!" he snaps, over whatever it is that Roy is trying to say. "Give it back!"

Roy blinks at him, looking confused, head tilted to one side to watch him. The cross, the only _real_ thing of value that Jason's ever owned, hangs there in the air like a mockery, and he wants it back against his chest, between his fingers. Just _wants it back_. He can't quite stand the thought of losing it, not when everything else he knows is gone, not when he's surrounded by savages and pagans and more than likely going to die anyway. Can't they let him have his God until then?

Jason extends his hands as far as he can, as Roy looks at the cross, fingers winding the chain further around themselves so the archer can look at the crafted, delicate metal closer. His feet skid along the wood of the boat as he pulls against the ropes, and he bares his teeth when Roy looks back up at him, communicates anger and demand in the only way that he can without his words to help.

"Give it _back_ ," he snarls, holding out his hands and jerking his chin towards the cross.

Roy seems to get it then, because after a small widening of eyes he reaches forward, dropping the cross and its chain into Jason's hands. Jason curls his fingers tight around the cross, clutching it close and trying to calm the frantic pace of his heart with the way it digs into his palm, like he's done since it was given to him. Roy speaks some short sentence, tone almost sounding apologetic but Jason has to be imagining that. There's no way a savage would feel guilty or sorry over taking something from him.

He curls his legs up, pulling into himself and shutting his eyes, ducking his head down against his knees to encase himself in the darkness as much as possible. The prayer he whispers into his knees feels like a useless measure, but it manages to help him settle a bit and maybe that's enough, for now. Maybe God will get him out of this somehow, or maybe this is his destiny. (Or maybe, a darker part of his mind hisses, this is his punishment for all the years before he was taken in by the church. All the theft, the violence…)

A nudge against his leg makes him jerk his head up, and he finds Roy looking at him with a somewhat bewildered, maybe even guilty (still _must_ be his imagination) smile. As he watches, Roy twists and reaches into one of the sacks scattered around, pulling out what looks like… bread. He tears off a chunk and then raises it, and it takes Jason a long few moments to come around to the idea that he's being offered food. Maybe food taken from his very home, but still food. And, okay, maybe he is a little hungry.

Cautiously, he offers a small nod, and lowers his legs a little bit to make it easier. He's almost positive that he can't actually reach his face with his hands and arms bound like they are, and he's not about to make a fool of himself trying.

Roy smiles then, shifting forward to kneel closer to him and hold the bit of bread out towards his mouth. It's a little awkward, but he gets it between his teeth on the first try, and doesn't have to lean too far forward to reach it. It's fairly bland, but it's not hard as a rock so really, it's better than it could be. He's had much worse.

There's a pleased string of words, as Roy settles down next to him, tearing another piece of the bread off. Jason takes the second bite when it's offered.

He's probably doomed to die, but… maybe it won't be completely awful. Maybe there can be little moments of good in all of it, and when his death comes he can meet it with dignity. He has to find hope somewhere, right?

* * *

The rest of the trip isn't that bad. Jason gets sore and cramped pretty fast, but it's nothing he's not familiar with. Roy stays by him for a fair amount of it, chattering to him in a language he's no closer to understanding, or sometimes talking with his… whatever she is. Kori, as he introduced her. A couple of the other Northmen nudge or poke at him, but none seem to have the patience to actually stick around for more than a minute or two, given the lack of response he's capable of.

The one disturbing thing he finds out, one day when he manages to twist a fair amount around the mast and look at the rest of the ship, is that he's not the only prisoner. There are four others, on the opposite side of the boat and out of earshot, tied up and huddled in their group. One other priest — an older Father — and three villagers. Two female, one male. He doesn't know why he's separated from them, but it doesn't seem like it could be as simple as the space available on the boat, especially not with how much attention Roy is giving him.

That 'imminent death' option is looking more and more likely, as far as he's concerned.

His hopes of maybe escaping once they’re off the boat dies a quick death when they pull up a river, and not two hours later directly into a small port attached to a village that looks about twice the size of Jason’s. A crowd gathers as they approach, and Jason feels his heart sink slowly into the pit of his stomach as he comes to terms with the fact that there is _no_ chance of escaping from an entire village of these people. Not like this. Whatever they want from him, whatever he’s here for, he’s just going to have to accept it. Maybe not passively, but holding onto hope of something that isn’t going to happen is just asking to get hurt. He hasn’t been that dumb in a long time.

Roy is there when they pull in on the dock, untying the ropes holding him to the mast with a few easy pulls, and then Jason finally knows what the rope he’s been feeling at his neck is for. Roy steps back, and the other end is wrapped around his hand, functioning as a crude leash and pulling him to his feet despite how his cramped up legs protest. He struggles to find his balance on the still-moving boat, and Roy laughs and steps up to him, one of those powerful arms wrapping around his back and easily steadying him, even as he freezes up at the touch.

Half of the other Northmen are already up on the dock by the time Roy manages to tug him over and get him to climb out, miles less gracefully than the rest of them and that’s with Roy half just straight up lifting him out. (That bit makes him choke on his breath, just a little bit.)

Kori jumps out beside them, stretching her arms above her head as she moves over to Roy and takes the other end of the leash from him. Apparently just in time, because the next moment there’s the sound of fast, running footsteps along the wood, and Jason jerks his head up in time to see a small, black-haired girl sprint between the other savages and careen right into Roy’s suddenly outstretched arms. She’s spun around, high into the air, as she laughs. Roy’s smile is brighter than anything Jason saw on the boat, even before he gathers the girl firmly into his arms and hugs her, coming down to one knee.

When Jason looks up Kori is smiling too, and that puts him totally off his guard for the hand that suddenly smacks his thigh. He jerks, and Roy is grinning up at him, starting to stand with the girl sitting on one of his shoulders.

“Jason,” is the simple word, with a slightly harder pat to his upper arm. Then Roy’s head tilts, nudging the girl on his shoulder. “Lian.”

She waves at him, says something, and Roy answers a moment later, turning further towards them. She’s distracted then as Kori steps forward and takes her off of Roy’s shoulder, hugging her tight as well before putting her right back up on that perch. It’s so smooth that Jason thinks it has to have been done a hundred times before, and this has to be their daughter.

Somehow, it hadn’t really occurred to him that they had kids.

Cautiously, he lifts his bound hands enough that he can wave back with the hand not still curled around his cross. Lian _beams_ , and despite himself Jason can’t help but give a very small smile back.

A moment later she’s chattering again, and Roy beckons to Jason with his free hand before heading down the dock. Kori’s hand comes to his shoulder, guiding him along with them, and Jason lets himself go along with it. His grip on the cross eases a little bit. (Surely a kid wouldn’t smile like that at someone that she knew was about to die, right?)

Jason feels… less like a giant, here. Most of the people around him are nearly as tall as he is, and some are even taller. Granted, they all look _very different_ than Jason’s own people, but it’s almost in a familiar sort of way. Weathered, rougher, and maybe he’s just gotten used to that look during the trip on the boat, but it’s not as utterly terrifying as he remembers it being during the attack. It’s still unnerving, and the looks they’re giving him still make him feel a little more like meat than a person, but he feels like he should be more scared than he actually is.

Kori’s hand stays on his shoulder, the rope at his throat more of a reminder than a real restraint as she steers him forward. The building they approach is large, more ornate than anything around it, and the double doors open ahead of the stream of Northmen. It’s dimly lit, the only light from a few propped open windows and some burning torches. Scattered benches, an unlit fire pit, and two seats raised up on a dais to one side. Towards the back of the hall — for once, it’s actually a little difficult for Jason to see over everyone’s heads to take in a whole room — there are cloth screens, mostly hiding several doors and cloth-covered arches that must lead to the rest of the building. None of the Northmen go as far back as that.

Jason finds his gaze drawn up towards the two elevated chairs. One, slightly smaller, is taken by a blonde woman with her hair in intricate, pulled back braids. The other is empty, for now.

Kori pulls him up to the front, pushes him down to his knees just in front of where the floor rises up to that dais. There are already several chests sitting there, flipped open to reveal what Jason is almost completely sure is basically all the wealth from his village, both coins and anything else of value. He sees several of the crosses from the church, and has to swallow before he can tear his gaze away. It’s just in time for the other prisoners to be pushed down next to him; they look significantly more terrified than he does, and Jason gets just a moment to think about trying to reassure them before Kori squeezes his shoulder and lets go, and his attention is drawn back to everything else happening.

The noise rises towards his right side and Jason turns his head to look. For a few moments he can’t see anything past the legs and leather of the crowd around him, but then they shift aside and two men come into view, exchanging smiles and conversation with the people they pass.

One is fairly tall, blue eyes, black hair shaved along one side, a broad chest, and equally large arms. The exposed slice of skin at his chest has several black lines across it that hint at more beneath his clothing. (His arms are bare, but plain.) He hasn’t got any sort of crown, or ornamentation, and he looks younger than most of the rest of them, but he looks _powerful_. He must be their leader. (King? Do they have titles here?)

The other is smaller, shorter than most of the other people here. His eyes are a more ice-colored blue, black hair down to his jaw with delicate, thin braids woven into both sides with what look like bits of metal and red ribbons. He’s more fully dressed, in leather and black cloth and fur, and he’s moving slightly ahead of the larger man that’s with him, speaking more openly with the others, and—

And then one shallowly bows to him and Jason feels his world flip over. No, no way. He’s so _small_ compared to the rest of them. He couldn’t possibly be—

He climbs the dais in a few short steps, and the blonde woman rises to meet him, smiling and letting him tug her into a short kiss. Then she’s sitting back down, and he’s turning and settling in the other chair without any fanfare, one leg drawing up to rest on the seat of it as the other stretches out. He calls something through a smile, and Kori steps past Jason, fingers trailing over his head as she passes and starts to answer, loud enough that the rest of the hall falls mostly silent.

Jason’s gaze shifts to the other man, still standing at the bottom of the dais but now with arms crossed and a small, close-mouthed smile on his mouth as he watches. So that’s… That’s not their leader. Their leader is the small one, the one nearly the size that Jason’s used to being around, and _not_ one of the massive-armed warriors around him now. How does that work? Is it by lineage?

Kori finishes whatever she’s saying, and the smaller man gets back up off the throne, responding with some line that sounds teasing, and makes a good number of the people gathered around laugh in response. Jason tries not to flinch too badly at the sudden sound.

Their leader descends, paused only for a moment by Kori, who leans down and says something in his ear, quiet enough that it’s just between them. Whatever it is makes his mouth curl into something like a smirk, before he continues forward. For a moment Jason thinks he’s the focus of attention, but the man crouches down ahead of him and next to the chests, one hand coming forward to rifle through them. The clink of metal is the loudest sound in the hall, and Jason watches him pick up several larger items, turning them around in his hand before dropping them back in. Then his gaze turns to them; the prisoners.

Jason swallows as the leader gets back up, looking down at first the others kneeling next to him, then him. He meets the gaze, tightening his grip on the cross in his hand as he’s studied. It seems too long, but then the man gives a small smile and some sort of command, paired with a flick of his fingers.

Suddenly there are hands on his shoulders, and Jason startles as he’s dragged up onto his feet. The leader laughs, lets out a low whistle, and then reaches out and pats his chest as he exclaims something. That gets another round of laughter from the people around them. It’s enough to make Jason tense up a little more.

One hand lifts, tracing the still bruised side of his face with enough pressure to make him wince, though he stubbornly bites down on the sound of pain that wants to escape. Instead, remembering the reactions he’s gotten previously, he takes a breath and silently sends a small prayer to God before he jerks his head away from the prodding fingers and bares his teeth in a low, warning snarl of sound.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he follows it up with, even knowing that they can’t understand him. Maybe his expression and tone will get enough across.

The leader’s head tilts, looking up at him curiously. Then, as he’d hoped (as he’d _prayed_ ), there’s a small laugh and the smaller man steps back, hand lowering away from him. He turns to Kori with a smile, says two sentences that cause a roar of reaction. Jason flinches for real then, but all he can find is grins and smiles, even if there’s a distinctly excited edge to them and the roar of sound sounds _violent_ to his ears. A flick of fingers, another commanding bit of speech, and the broadly built, black-haired man that Jason originally mistook for their leader moves forward, towards _him_.

An unseen hand passes off the end of the rope around his neck, and he’s tugged forwards, almost trips but just barely manages to stabilize himself before the next firm tug. He grabs the rope with his bound hands, trying to lessen how it jerks against his neck as he tries to keep up with the steady pull.

It’s then, as he’s pulled to the back of the hall and past the cloth that screens most of it, that he starts to wonder if maybe he just made a terrible mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! The second chapter of this is a (very) belated birthday present for JayKore, at their request! (In my defense, I didn't know it was their birthday till the day of. Oops.) Hope you enjoyed the first read-through of it, darling; happy to provide! To everyone else, hope you enjoy it as well!
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Jason just manages to keep his feet as the man drags him further into the building, past the curtains that apparently serve as doors and a couple wooden thresholds that he all but trips over. Panic, as much as knowing that he wouldn't be understood anyway, stops him from trying to say anything in protest. He just tries to breathe, to keep on his feet, and not let the rope around his neck choke him.

The sounds from the main hall, or whatever it is, slowly fade, and finally they enter a small room with what looks a lot like a wooden tub in the middle of it. The man holding his rope tugs him off to the side before he can really take any of it in, pulling him close enough that Jason would balk, if he had the slack to, before pulling him to the wall. There's a high loop on the wall, near the ceiling, and the man loops his rope through it and ties him there before just… walking out. A surreptitious yank against the metal doesn't produce any result.

He doesn't get a chance to try anything more in depth. Only a few moments later the thick-armed, black-haired man is walking back in, this time tailed by two people that Jason first thinks of as servants, before he realizes his mistake. There are thick metal collars around their throats, light chains between cuffed wrists. Not servants, slaves. A man and a woman, both looking unlike the Northmen he’s seen; foreign in some way he can’t place. They move like they know what they're doing, going to one corner of the room and collecting two buckets each out of a small pile of them. Then they duck out of a small door on the back wall that he missed, hidden behind a thick fur hung there.

The man, warrior, whatever he actually is, turns to him and gives a smile. Says something in a tone that sounds almost friendly, which is completely at odds with the _big knife_ that he pulls out of a sheath on his thigh. Jason finds enough of a voice to make a strangled, protesting sound at the idea of that coming anywhere near him.

"Don't," he says, tugging harder at the ropes. "Don't do this. I—”

The man comes closer, only speaking to him in more of that deceptively light, utterly incomprehensible language. Not sounding remotely like he's approaching with a blade big enough to gut him in one sharp slice. Jason stares at it, wondering about the chances of kicking out and maybe causing enough of a distraction to somehow escape. Or will that just get him killed?

Is it still sinful to be violent, if it's to save his own life?

The cross digs into his palm, and Jason finds himself falling still despite the panic. No, he _can't_. He has to stay truthful to God's teachings, however he can, and if that means enduring whatever they're going to do to him, so be it. This is his trial, he has only to have faith. _Believe_. He chose to give his life to this, and if this is how God wants to test him…

His breath grows short and sharp as the warrior stops in front of him, blade rising. He can't make his eyes stay open, but he tightens his hands to fists and presses his back to the wall, reciting a soundless prayer and waiting for the ending strike. He knows his teeth bare.

There's a tug against his sleeve, the _rip_ of cloth, and Jason's eyes snap open again. The man has a hold of his robe, using the knife to saw through and rip the fabric right up to his shoulder. He stares, uncomprehending and still more than a little panicked by the metal so close to his skin. The hem finally gives, right at his neck, and the man lets the cloth fall apart and reaches for his other arm. His clothes. It's just cutting through his clothes.

Stunned confusion more than anything else keeps him still, and maybe it's practice or maybe it's just the blade, but it doesn't take much time at all for the second sleeve to come apart just like the first. His robe falls to his waist, and he shivers at the chill in the air, drawing his arms in tight against his chest.

That's when the slaves reappear, buckets weighted down with what's quickly shown to be water as they pour each one into the wooden tub. It must not be enough, because they immediately leave for more. Jason's looking at the door, thinking about what might be beyond it, when the warrior suddenly reaches up and pulls the rope free from the loop.. It feels sudden to him, at least.

He inhales, grabbing for the rope again to stop it pulling at his neck. It doesn't stop him from getting pulled over to the tub, held next to it. The man says something to him, one thick eyebrow lifting. Jason flinches _hard_ when the knife taps against his thigh, and then the edge of the tub. He doesn't understand, and can only stare at the warrior and how expectant he looks. He wants him to do _something_ , but…

Jason doesn't get the chance to puzzle out what it is. Thick-arms snorts, sheathes the knife in one blind shove, and then grabs him by the arm before he can even think about capitalizing on the weapon being put away. He gasps as he's dragged closer, then yelps in shock as the remains of his robe get yanked down over his hips. The underpants below last barely a moment, caught and pulled down before he can do more than start to jerk away. He almost trips over his own clothes, bundled around his ankles, but he gets yanked back and down before he can fall over, landing hard on his knees on the wooden boards of the floor just in front of the tub.

It feels like it all happens too fast for him to react. Suddenly his clothes are completely gone, pulled off his ankles, and then hands are grabbing him and hefting, and he finds himself getting tipped into the tub. His back hits the wood hard enough to wind and cut off his shocked cry, water splashing up around him and onto his face.

God, it's fucking _cold_.

Jason sputters, trying to sit up and get at least his head out of the water. A hand intrudes on his vision, and he jerks back but only succeeds in cracking his head into the side of the tub. It doesn't stop the rope at his neck from being looped down under his bound wrists, so when Thick-arms pulls at it it forces his head to the edge of the tub, and his wrists are caught on the rope, forced up near his neck. His head is swimming a little, aching where he hit it. He grits his teeth, pressing his forehead to his wrists and trying to get himself together enough to focus.

Tub, water, lack of clothes, so it's just… just a bath, right? (He's pretty sure he could use one, after the sea voyage. Hygiene was… interesting, to say the least.) Jason still doesn't know why he's being given one, but if it's just a bath maybe that's alright. The water's freezing, and he's pretty sure he's not going to like the actual washing given that his hands are still tied, but it's not so different than how the Fathers gave him baths when they took him in. He didn't like that either. This isn't that bad.

The door opens again, and Jason twists his head enough to look. The slaves are back, more buckets of water, and Jason doesn't fully comprehend what that means until they're pouring over him and making him gasp and jerk at the temperature. His feet hit the wall of the tub hard enough to make an audible thump.

The warrior speaks over his head, apparently to the slaves because it's only a couple moments before there are hands on him, rough cloth scrubbing across his back. He squirms, biting into his bottom lip and trying to keep quiet because what's the point in complaining to people who won't even understand him?

Yeah, this feels a lot like his first scrubbings at the church. Except he's about twice the size he used to be, and he wasn't afraid for his life then, only what direction his future might take.

His skin stings a little when they're finally finished, and he's as flushed and embarrassed as he remembers being as a kid from hands and cloths in places he _really_ didn't want them. He's almost relieved when they pull away, except he knows there's one part of him that's not clean yet, and if the priests were bad he's not looking forward to seeing how rough the Northmen are about washing hair.

The tension of the rope finally eases, just a moment before hands take his upper arms and pull him up with firm but surprisingly gentle grips. He ends up kneeling, hands dropped to try and preserve whatever shred of modesty he has left, the rope still held in Thick-arms' hands but slack, apparently no longer concerned that he's immediately going to try and run. Not that he ever got far enough into thinking about escape to really consider running anyway, but he's definitely not going to do it now. Wrists tied, naked, and drenched is not how he wants to start an escape attempt.

One of the slaves draws his attention with a touch to the underside of his jaw, and he tilts his head back even though it makes him a little nervous. Fingers comb his hair back, and then water sluices over his scalp, kept away from his face by the press of a hand to his forehead. Intense relief eases the tension in his shoulders.

He wasn't expecting _careful_ , but that's exactly what they are. Even when one takes a cloth to his face, it's gentle, wiping whatever dirt or grime must have been there away with much less pressure than was used on the rest of him. Jason cooperates, following the guiding touches of their hands even as he shivers, unable to fully stop it. Till, finally, they scrape his hair back and withdraw, leaving him kneeling in the water. It's gross, frankly, and as much as Jason wishes it was in different circumstances it does feel nice to be clean again. Would feel better if he wasn't freezing.

The warrior draws his attention by speaking, and this time Jason can read the nod of his chin and the light pull of the rope as an order to get out of the tub. That, he's more than willing to obey. He swallows and gets to his feet, climbing out of the tub with only a little bit of awkwardness thanks to his bound hands. The slaves reappear at his sides, and the cloth they use to rub him dry definitely isn't soft, but it's not as coarse as it could be.

One of them tries to open his hand, but he keeps it tightly clenched around the weight of his cross and they give up after a couple moments. Not long enough, thankfully, that Thick-arms seems to notice. Maybe it's stupid, to cling to the symbol of his faith so hard instead of just believing that God will protect him regardless, but Jason's never… He's never managed that complete, unconditional faith in the Lord that the older members of the church did. He has faith, but… but surely he won't be faulted for just needing this little piece of something physical to cling to.

He's still just a little damp when they're apparently done with him, but no one seems to care. One slave presses a bundle of cloth into his arms, and then Thick-arms says something, nods to the door leading back to the rest of the building, and the both of them head out without complaint.

When he takes a look at the bundle it becomes pretty obvious that it's a set of clothes. Simple, rough linen, no different than what the slaves were wearing, he thinks. Is that what he's been brought for? To be a slave?

Then why all the ceremony? Why was he singled out in the ship and at the line-up of prisoners? Why the bath, when the two other slaves didn't look freshly clean? They were clean, he noticed that, but more like they'd washed off before the start of a long day, not this kind of thorough scrubbing. There's something here that Jason's missing; if only he could understand what they'd said around him, maybe he'd know what it was.

Maybe it's that he's less panicked, or maybe it's that Thick-arms is getting better about ways to communicate to him without a shared language, but Jason understands the message when he gestures at the clothes.

He gets the pants on just fine, but the shirt is one piece and there's no way into it with his hands bound. A problem solved before he can even think about how to try and communicate it, because Thick-arms comes up to him and takes his hands, fingers working at the knot of the rope. Jason was pretty sure it was a difficult one — he'd definitely had no luck with it, on the ship — but it comes apart easily under his fingers.

The wince as it comes loose is impossible to stop, his skin reddened and raw underneath where he was bound. It doesn't hurt that badly, but it does hurt. Thick-arms turns them over in his hands, apparently studying the damage. Jason sees the moment that his attention is caught by the fist of his closed hand.

Whatever he says it sounds commanding, and the open hand being held beneath his own would make it clear even if Jason hadn't seen the interest forming. He swallows, struggling with the idea of giving up what might be the very last piece of home he'll see for who knows how long. He doesn't want to, but denying a slave is not the same as denying a savage warrior. The repeated string of syllables, sharper this time, makes that clear.

Jason takes a slow breath, forcing himself to straighten and try and trust in whatever plan God has for him. He drops the cross and its cord into Thick-arms' hand.

"It's nothing," he says, knowing he won't be understood but feeling like he has to try anyway. "It's just a symbol. My religion. Please, it's harmless."

Thick-arms twists the cord between his fingers, looking at the cross, but there's no understanding in the blue of his eyes. Only a curiosity that quickly vanishes, along with his cross. It gets tucked into the folds of the leather and fur of Thick-arms' shirt without any comment from him. Jason feels the bite of the loss, but he's already being motioned to put his own shirt on so he doesn't have the time to process it. The rope still around his neck, now somewhat damp, gets tugged out from beneath the shirt as soon as he has it on, and Thick-arms winds it around one hand and tilts his head towards the door.

His hands are free, but Jason still follows when the rope is pulled. Maybe he has clothes now, but he's still barefoot and he still doesn't like his chances of getting away. God knows what they'd do to him if he tried to run and didn't manage it.

He doesn't know what he's expecting, but they don't go back to the gathering. The sound of it grows louder and then quiet again, and Thick-arms leads him to a room half the size of the other one, enough for a bed and a bit of floor space, but not much else. Only a very thin window, shaded by cloth, and Jason definitely notices the lock on the door. It looks like a pretty comfortable cell, at least.

Thick-arms pulls the rope over his head in one easy movement, just barely catching his ear, and says something to him that sounds as friendly as his original words, right before he pulled the knife. Thankfully he doesn't this time, only winds the rope up in his hands and then leaves the room. He hears the latch slide shut.

Jason sweeps his gaze across the room, but there's nothing to look at. Only the bed, and it's that he ends up sitting down on the foot of, staring down at his wrists and hands. His right still has the imprint of his cross in it, from holding it for so long, so tightly.

Suddenly, the bite of that loss is as fresh as though it was just torn from his hand. His breath catches, and he clenches his hand shut along with his eyes. Alone, for the first time since his capture, Jason feels everything start to collapse in on him. Everyone he knows, everyone he's considered a friend... He'll never see most of them again. There are the others taken prisoner, but he would rather pray they find a way out than be grateful to have them trapped here with him.

_Everything_ that was his, is gone. Maybe what he had at home can be gifted to those fortunate enough to have survived, but Jason has no idea if there even is anyone left alive. The Northmen clearly have no respect for their religion, no hesitation in attacking and killing priests, why would they hesitate to slaughter a village? Why should he have hope that anyone he knew even still lives?

He can feel his eyes burning even behind the lids, feel the gathering of tears at the corners before they slip free. He takes a shaking breath, clasping his hands together and squeezing them tight, bending to press his head to them.

The pain eats at his chest, and he finds comfort in the only way he knows how. He starts to pray.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't know how long it is before his door opens again. Long enough that his tears have long since dried, and the light from the window is gone, leaving him mainly in darkness. He feels a little more centered, a little calmer, and he's taken the opportunity of his solitude to explore the room more thoroughly, examining the window and the door and checking each wall to see if there was anything that could be exploited. There's not.

He's lying down when the door opens, too wary to sleep but with nothing else to do, and he immediately gets to his feet when he hears the scrape of the latch. Light is the first thing to come in, the orange tint of flame, and he squints against it. As his eyes adjust he can see the man in the doorway, holding what looks like a platter balanced in one hand. It's the one from before, the smaller one that he's pretty sure is the lord or whatever of this village.

He says something in a smooth voice, stepping inside, and Jason flinches sharply when he hears his name in the middle of those unfamiliar words. He steps back, hands clenching into fists out of old, buried instinct. Being threatening got him out of — or into, maybe — an encounter with this guy before, maybe if he just does that again it'll work. All he has to do is look dangerous.

The blue eyes of the lord are cool, assessing. "Jason," he says again, and it's _strange_ , accented, but it's undeniably his name.

His teeth bare, because he doesn't know what else to do.

A smile plays around the corners of the lord's mouth. He steps forward, circling to the side until he can set that platter at the foot of the bed. There's food on it, a cup of something, and a candle burning within a small dish. A meal. Against his will, Jason's stomach clenches tight in hunger. He doesn't know how long it's been since his last meal on the ship, and even that was just dried meat and bread. Nothing like the offering on that platter.

One hand lifts to the center of his chest, drawing Jason's attention. "Tim," he says, and this time Jason recognizes the introduction for what it is.

He considers whether or not to respond for a few seconds, but he must react visibly enough to be an answer, because 'Tim' doesn't wait for him to say anything. Instead he waves a hand towards the platter, saying something Jason can't make heads or tails of. The smile doesn't look dangerous, at least, but then a moment later he moves forward again, invading the space between bed and wall that Jason's put himself in.

"Stay back," he demands, making sure his voice is a snarl even as he backs up a step. There's hardly anywhere for him to go, though, and his back hits the wall without it feeling like he's put any space between them.

It doesn't do anything. Tim moves to stand just in front of him, looking up at him without even a hint of wariness. Jason keeps his teeth bared, but his hands stay against the wall, remembering the priests and all of their teachings even as his gut wants to swing a fist and make the smaller man back off. _No_.

A hand lifts, and Jason jerks his head away but the fingers follow, coming up to trace the side of his jaw. He can feel them catch on the stubble growing there, lingering near the corner of his mouth. The other arm starts to lift as well, and Jason can only stay still, giving a protesting noise but no more, trapped between the wall and the threat of the lord before him. Fingers brush his neck, the other hand lowering there as well, and then he can feel cord against his skin. Familiar cord, he realizes, as the hands brush the back of his neck and then pull away.

A glance down identifies the weight settling against his chest as his cross, tied around his neck once more. His breath catches.

One of Tim's hands touches his chest, just beside the cross, and he speaks. Quiet this time, something sincere or maybe just serious, and then he quirks a smile, laughs softly. Jason stares as he draws back a step, hands lowering and taking one of his wrists instead. He's too surprised to resist, only watching as Tim looks at the wrist, turns it. Frowns, just a little. He can't help wincing at the pass of a thumb over the raw skin.

He's let go, and he doesn't _understand_ as Tim walks away from him, moving back to the door. Stops there, to say something and point at the platter on the bed. 'Eat,' or something along those lines, probably.

He seems to be waiting for some kind of answer or response, so Jason pushes past how tight his throat feels and nods, shallowly. Whatever the actual order, if it was an order, a basic 'yes' is probably good enough. At least for two people that can't understand each other.

Tim smiles, and slips out the door. It locks behind him but now there's the candle, lighting the room instead of leaving Jason in darkness. Just enough to see the room and food by. He goes to it.

As he sits, his hand drifts to his chest. He feels partially in shock, not remotely understanding what happened. If he was here to be a slave, what was _that?_ Why would his cross be returned to him? His injuries looked at? Why would the lord himself come to him and bring him food? He just doesn't understand, and that lack of understanding is leaving a ball in his gut. He doesn't like not understanding his own situation. Maybe… Maybe the morning will come with answers; there's nothing he can do but theorize, now.

He breathes out, clenching the cross tight within his hand, and then reaches for the food.

 

* * *

 

Tim trails fingers over the wall as he passes through the house, the noise of the feast quieted, or moved away from the hall. Back within the walls of his home, he can barely hear anything but the occasional drunken yell from some celebrating man or woman, out within his village. He ducks beneath the curtain to his room, finding the candle still burning to the side of the bed, Steph stretched out with her back to the light. He can't help but smile, keeping himself quiet as he strips down and blows out the candle, climbing in behind her.

She stirs then, turning to wrap an arm around his waist and tug him closer. "Welcome back." Her voice is sleepy but understandable. "What do you think of him?"

He hums, returning her grip and letting his palm rest against her back. "He's interesting. He showed teeth but never tried to bite, only wanted me to stay away from him." He huffs out an amused breath, closing his eyes and letting himself settle down. "I think he's harmless."

"Mm, guess we'll find out tomorrow." She yawns, face pressing into his collarbone. "Then I can meet your new pet."

"He's not a pet," Tim denies. "He'll work like any of the others."

"Yes, but he's _not_ like any of the others. You like him." She traces fingers down his ribs. "A hound works, but you might still let it eat from your hand if you like it best."

She's right, even if he does have the urge to argue it more. "Do you mind?" he asks, instead. "That he's a slave?"

"Only if you don't share stories. He's handsome, I see it; have fun."

"Sounds like you want a piece yourself," he teases.

Steph laughs into his chest. "Yeah, as long as it's not any of the _male_ pieces." She flicks his side as he snickers. "Go to sleep, _husband_."

He runs his fingers through her hair, smiling wide and fond. "As you wish, _wife_."

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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